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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24139993">Where's Your Head, Psycho Boy?</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/AQuietThinker/pseuds/AQuietThinker'>AQuietThinker</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fight Club (1999)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>BEST FILM EVER, Blood and Injury, Cigarettes, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Depression, Eventual Comfort, F/M, Hallucinations, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Insomnia, Intimacy, Introspection, M/M, Messed Up Comfort, One-Shot, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Smoking, Symbolism, Toxic Masculiity, Why Did I Write This?</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 18:01:18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,344</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24139993</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/AQuietThinker/pseuds/AQuietThinker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Hallucinations come in all shapes and forms, and, however deep our wish is for them to be true, they are jst a beautiful lie created by our pain.</p><p>The Narrrator breaks down infront of his most beautiful and horrid lies,</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Narrator &amp; Marla Singer, Tyler Durden &amp; Narrator, Tyler Durden/Narrator</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>33</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Where's Your Head, Psycho Boy?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>AAAAAANNNNDDDD its three am and I'm writting Fight Club fanfiction. Oopsie.</p><p>Hope you enjoy.</p><p>x)</p><p>Warning; triggering topics like self-destructive behaviours</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The blood that pooled inside my cheek seemed to choke me with is mentalic gloriousness as I clenched my teeth, gaze still on the mustard coloured accent chair that had arrived last afternoon. The remains of the cardboard box were still messily scattered to the corner of the already bright room, and I had no intention of picking them up. This was the fifth accessory I had bought in shades of yellow, and the room did not fail to notice the awfully contrasting colour; a dijon armoire, two daffodil toned loveseats and an accent chest that seemed as bright as the summer sun.</p><p>I hated it all instantly.</p><p>There was nothing to be done. I had already cracked two metacarpal bones on my left hand after avidly tearing apart a set of indigo glassware that had arrived a week after the L.A. destructio, an order I couldn't recall making.</p><p>My memory was a filthy traitor, had been for months.</p><p>Marla had just arrived when I had thrown the last crystal cup. She took me to the hospital, kissed my bruised, bloodied knuckles along with the lye burn, stayed naked in my bed for two nights then left without a trace.</p><p>Marla Singer. The mysterious, unpredictable tumour in my brain.</p><p>She never mentioned any other lye burn on my forearm or my eyebags, just came for the sex and to dump all her bag of emotional shit upon someone. And I took it all, did not complain, and tried to stop myself from falling in the clutches of becoming a statistic.</p><p>Then she stopped the sexual acts and became worse.</p><p>I looked down on the newest edition of my IKEA collection, barley aware that blood had begun dripping down my chin. </p><p>I am Jack’s average dystopian consumer.</p><p>The flat wallpaper and stuffy air that lingered from the shut windows seemed to suffocate me as my throat tightened, and I didn’t even care to throw on a coat or scarf as I trodden out of the house. The place was fairly decent, manageably priced, and far away from the chaos of Los Angeles.</p><p>I walked through the city, alone, unwanted, in dead silence. My finger trembled, my eyes watered, and I urged for a punch to the jaw. No one would bother me, the one who created everything and made way for the new beginning. There was no life, just the bags of trash and thrown out Starbuck cups.</p><p>My thoughts raced back to Marla, remembering the last time she panicked at my appearance. Her bony complexion had wallowed in madness, not unlike Wendy Torrance as she swung her bat in the never ending film of the corner cinema I sometimes visited (I always payed attention for any pornogaphic flashes, but could not catch any). She had begun applying better makeup to her face, as if she now used her proper right hand, and dressed in formal clothing rather than the homeless witch attire bathed in cigarette smoke.</p><p>She stopped liking sex and mentioned that the sensual revolution period was over in her life, claiming to be a vegan, naturalist shit. I loved her.</p><p>Yet Tyler Durden kept taunting me.</p><p>He had been ghastly following my footsteps since Marla left, yet every time I swung around to meet piercing blue eyes, the sexy sway of ridiculous beach shirt underneath a formal tan sweater, the smell of pot on pearly teeth… I saw nothing.</p><p>I am Jack’s edgy paranoia.</p><p>Tonight there is nothing, just me, myself, and I, and my bitchy insomnia that won’t stop  scarring my brain. </p><p>Yet…. deja vu, memories, even a scent in present and my tongue rolls to lick at the small ulcer of my mouth, the phantom of a bullet still-</p><p>“Fuck, dude, how long has it been? Ninety-six hours? Five weeks without a good fuck? Jesus, man, when was your last cigarette?”</p><p>There’s a hand in my shoulder. There is nothing in my shoulder.</p><p>Ah. The one and only. The man dressed in a beach patterned dress shirt, collar standing up in a Presley-wannabe manner, torn jeans and a jacket trimmed with cat smelling thrift shop fur. His chiseled cheekbones, bruised purple, his spikes for dirty blonde hair, his rose shades.</p><p>His fascist highness, ruler of fights, well known Messiah against the capitalist greed.</p><p>Tyler Durden.</p><p>Cigarette sticking out of his perfect lips, holding onto my shoulder like a lifelong friend, smirking and flirting, the very manifestation of a spiritual rebellion marked by lye burns.</p><p>Tyler fucking Durden.</p><p>“Come on, honey bun, not even a hello? I trained you better than that.” he whistles, throwing off the cancer stick and kicking it impassively before looking at me. “Well, looks like self-worth didn’t work out for you.”</p><p>Shut up.</p><p>“You can’t shut me up, man, only if you finally have the balls to get me laid. Besides, you and I both know you're in serious need for help.”</p><p>As much as rage fills every inch of my roughened, miserable being, he’s not wrong. I say nothing, just walk back from where I came from, deflated and quitting the midnight wind. My eyes burned with dead sleep, my hands tingles as I fumbled for the keys of the house. But Tyler only waltzed in, as if the door was unlocked. Perhaps it was.</p><p>My eyes can only seize up to the shifting on his cargo pants before my body collapses, feeling the hands seize my shoulders as I nearly fall unconscious. The bastard even has the decency of letting me fall on the floor instead of the newest IKEA edition.</p><p>He sits down next to me, stretching out muddied boots all over the rug and litting up another cigarette and offering it to me. Without thinking, I press it against my arm until I smell my flesh burning, and throw it back and the spiky blonde, missing by five meters.</p><p>“You look like a corpse.”</p><p>“Fuck you.”</p><p>“With pleasure, but considering our situation, you need to fix yourself up before that happens.”</p><p>He ended the sentence with a whine, kicking me softly in the shin as I dragged myself towards the sofa his back was resting on. Everything in this room was new, pure, and heavily contrasting my rotting figure.</p><p>“I’m useless. Helpless. Fucking little pussy.”</p><p>Tyler straightens a stare at me and suddenly I can see a sadness unlike no other in his eye. I grip at the scabs of my arm, where underneath them silvery silk threads have begun scarring on my skin like ink. I’m so tired, so dead inside, so done.</p><p>“I’m not what you wanted me to be, Tyler.”</p><p>“No.” he strictly grasps out.“No, moron. You are everything I wanted you to be. And you will be so much more”</p><p>Oh, Tyler. Don’t you get it? I’m a liar. And you are my most magnificent lie.</p><p>“That’s where you’re wrong, my friend.”</p><p>There is a fluid motion to himself as he swoops my arm and presses gentle, even loving kisses on the burns, the poor excuses I made to try and stay awake. His caring willingness stops my death wish for just a moment and the immense pressure behind my eyes finally breaks as I cover my face with the other hand.</p><p>I am Jack’s uncontrolled tear ducts.</p><p>I sob into myself, choking ,screaming, muttering apologise and curling my soul and physical being into the chest of my sworn enemy.</p><p>He does not mock me, or make me the protagonist of a perfect satire, no. </p><p>Tyler Durden holds me against his rhythmic heartbeat and caresses my hair with his calloused hand, clutches my waist with another as I wail my burdens out quietly. We exist together, in a room of horrid, newly scented yellows, already disturbed by the mud and tears.</p><p>I am Jack’s dying mind.</p><p>Fingers stroke my jaw and explore the puckering hole left by the bullet long ago, yet don’t question, don’t judge. Tyler bends down and our lips meet in a blazing lie, a fantasy of mine.</p><p>I am Jack’s shattered soul</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I LOVE Fight Club, and think it should have won so many Oscars /but that's just my opinion)</p><p>(Sorry I'm sleep deprived)</p><p>Anyways, I hope you like it. It's the frst time I ever post anything on first person. Forgive the mistakes, I barley edited. Feel free to comment on your opinion!</p><p>x)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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